


It's Been A Pleasure, Mr. Hatter

by Emotionalsorbet



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Ice Skating, Kissing, M/M, Shared apartment, Supernatural Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:42:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4603701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emotionalsorbet/pseuds/Emotionalsorbet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps a perfected fantasy isn't all Tony ever wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Been A Pleasure, Mr. Hatter

Tony wakes up in a bathtub.

And _alright_ , it's not _exactly_ waking up, but he's pretty sure Steve's hands dragging him into a world of unwanted consciousness counts for something along those lines. He gasps for air when he reaches the surface, sputtering and hands fumbling to find a grip on the mans arms.

"Tony," Steve frets, "what's--?"

An opportunity isn't really granted to him on terms of providing a valid response, as Steve's already wrapping a towel around the part of his body that isn't immersed in water, and tugging him forward into an embrace. It's a new type of confrontation between he and the super soldier, so he's absolutely lost on an action to carry out next. Keeping this in mind, he freezes, fingertips resting on Steve's biceps. Of course, water is still working its way out of his lungs, leaving him solely to kill the moment by means of a terribly unfortunate fit of coughing.

It's then that he hears the footsteps, and suddenly he's drowning in the events occurring. There's voices, and _hugging_ , and pruned skin.

How long has he been in here?

" _God_ ," someone shouts, "I thought you two were done. Keep it PG or close the goddamn door!"

Steve turns, somehow only managing to press Tony further into his chest. "Should've read the fine print when you signed up. Could've lived anywhere else, but no, Mr. _I need someone to split the rent with_ chose a residency with two men already invested. This one's on you, Buck."

 _Huh_ , that didn't add up.

Mustering enough strength to push himself into an independent position, Tony grabs hold of the towel, shoving it under the water in order to conceal his indecency. The quick pace of his drawing back earns him a look, "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Tony says, despite the feverish heat rising to the base of his cheeks. His eyes are cast downward, and he's trying his hardest to focus on anything other than Steve's gaze. The idea of it appears nearly impossible--he's being watched, _he knows that_ , but it's the thought behind the attention that worries him. Concern is evident in every feature of the blond. It's trapping him into a corner, pinning him down until he's practically squealing out every qualm he's got with the situation at hand.

"Um, could I have a minute?" He makes the mistake of glancing up, catching sight of the few beads of water falling from Steve's hair. And well, _shit_ , because it doesn't take a mastermind to put together the information he's been provided with.

After a moment or two of silence, Steve steps out, but not quite before tossing an extra towel into the bathroom. Tony takes the time to think, to _really_ think, about everything and anything he could have possibly missed on his way to the current hour. He was wet, and Steve was wet, and Bucky...well, Bucky seemed to disapprove of the entirety of the living conditions set up for the trio. But it didn't make sense--Barnes was dead, wasn't he? Yes, Tony was sure of it. He'd been to the memorial on far too many occasions to screw up that vital detail, and yet, in a short span of five minutes, the guy was waltzing back into the bathroom (after frantically ensuring that Tony was, in fact, fully clothed) to brush his teeth.

You can't tell a guy who's standing next to you of the impossibility tied to his existence.

Though, perhaps the case wasn't actually as flawed as it appeared to be. Maybe, _just maybe_ , Bucky was dead. Tony may have joined the club of those no longer walking the Earth as well--it was plausible, the idea of seeing himself six feet under with a dirt roof and an identification written in stone. To be quite frank, he would be a great deal more surprised if he had survived whatever fatal attack struck him last.

However, and even following those specific terms, a concept did remain unexplainable: Steve. Sure, it was a pretty well known fact that Tony screwed up often, but he carried out the imperfections chasing the perfect outcome. If he had died, his passing would have been for something stupid--an explosion in the lab, or throwing a missile straight into realms he shouldn't be toying with. In short, his death was near anyway, so what did it matter if he traded in materialistic earth for something else? His mother always did say that eventually, souls would be forced to let go. Let go of the past, their hometown, the people they love. He didn't really have much of those anyway. People were always chasing him, and sometimes, if he was lucky enough, he would chase them out of starting more turmoil than necessary. Overall, his death sort of fit.

But Steve--Captain America _couldn't_ die.

Tony's father made sure he comprehended that fact better than the back of his hand. The guy was absolutely phenomenal. He fought great, spoke great-- _hell_ , the guy was the definition of perfection. A sacrifice himself for the team kind of guy. So he couldn't die, that was, unless he really did sacrifice himself for the team. Tony pondered it for a while, until he realized the outcome didn't set right. There was something off about it. Captain America wouldn't let his guard down far enough to endanger the amount of people he was fighting with.

If he was lost before, he was drowning in confusion now.

How would any of this add up? And why, for the love of god, would his afterlife be stationed in a building where Bucky Barnes (out of all freaking people) walked in on him bathing at least once a day? Why was Steve holding him in such a way, and why wasn't he opposed to the fact of Tony being completely in the absence of clothing? _Why_ \--?

"Babe," Steve's towel-drying his hair out in the hallway, rubbing the beige cloth between his hands every three seconds and shaking like a dog every five. "Aren't you going to be cold? You complained about wearing that shirt last week, said your arms were going to fall off if you didn't get some kind of warmer sleeve."

Tony chokes on air. Bucky spits a wad of toothpaste and saliva into the sink. "I've got a turtleneck you can wear. First Christmas I spend in Jersey and my mother sends me a sweater. I don't know what's going on in her head, but I'm ninety-nine percent sure she thinks the difference between here and the city is like moving from Miami to Alaska. Don't think I even cut the tags off. It's all yours if you want it." He grabs the mouth wash, pouring it it straight into his mouth from the bottle.

"I've got other sweatshirts. They aren't turtlenecks, but they'll keep you covered. C'mon," he hangs the towel on the back of the door.

The apartments small, from what Tony can tell, composed of three bedrooms (in reality, it's only two, if you count the beds. But he doesn't really want to focus on that concept just yet), a kitchen, and an open space in between. Steve stops at the middle room, turning in and shutting the door behind them. His lips are pressed against Tony's within an instant, and his hands are brushing lightly against the brunette's jawline. Overall, it's a paralyzing move, leaving Tony frozen in several self-reprimands about his alcohol toxicity levels and the appropriate moments for them to come about. Because, _holy crap._

He freezes, and it's nearly only a second subsequent that Steve pulls away, observing him curiously. "Where are you?" comes the question, but wait, _what_?

"Something's wrong. You're oddly quiet, and it's clear that something else has your thoughts captive. What is it? You can tell me, you know."

"Nothing's wrong," Tony raises onto the toes. "Promise," he breathes.

His index finger is under Steve's chin, and his head's tilted ever so slightly to the left, and quite frankly, he doesn't have a clue as to what he's doing. All he knows is that he's leaning forward, eyes fluttering shut as the two of them come into contact again. There's a hoard of butterflies spazzing out in the pit of his stomach, all while a dizzying buzz is crowding over his mind. He can't focus on anything--

"No," Steve's pulling away again, "don't do that. Don't push me away. I wanna hear it--all of it. What are you thinking about?"

"You."

"I'm serous Tony. What happened with you in the bath?"

"I don't know." And, well, he's not lying.

Somewhere in the back of his thoughts, he understands that Steve isn't going to take the excuse as an answer, but what else is he supposed to say? ' _Hey, so I'm pretty certain we're both dead, anyway_ '? Yeah, nuh-uh, not going to fly.

Steve sighs, turning away for a moment in order to retrieve the article of clothing. He's pissed, or at least, Tony believes he is, solely for the reason concerning Tony's necessity to get a fucking grip on whatever reality he's fallen into. Only, he doesn't know that.

"I'm good," Tony tries, pulling the hoodie over his head, "really." He places a hand on Steve's shoulder, successfully spinning him so that they're face to face. His arms immediately wrap around the blond's neck, and the two of them are incredibly close, hot breaths hitting the others skin.

"I'm just--I'm worried," Steve confesses, eyes blinking up from their focus on Tony's lips. "You've done this before, you know, closing in on yourself. I don't..."

They're a mere centimeter apart, both pressing forward, and--he _could_ get used to being dead.

But Bucky's at the door, shoving it open with his entire fucking body. " _Lovebirds_! I would advise that we hurry this up a bit, unless you prefer being fired from one of the only two jobs we will probably ever get."

Tony relinquishes his hold, pulling back one hand in order to cover his mouth as the other remains on Steve's shoulder. He's blushing like a fourth grade school girl, and internally cursing out Barnes like a fifty year old truck driver.

"Right," Steve nods, pressing a quick kiss to Tony's forehead. "If we're late again, we'll be on probation for sure." He dips down to grasp something from the floor of the walk in closet, tugging it up by a pair of conjoined laces. Tony is capable of no more than a blank stare. Ice-skates. This is a joke, _right_?

Apparently, and as Tony later discovers, it's absolutely not a joke, and Bucky's skating circles around him quicker than the freaking road runner himself. First off, the plan of the night is a wreck, because it's a project just to get Tony's damn skates on his feet. He's never been to a rink, so it was a question as to why Barnes and Rogers expected him to be no less than a pro at the sport. Especially when it takes him all of two seconds to spiral out onto his face. Steve's skating over to him in record time, brushing snow from his vest and tugging his hat back onto the correct part of his head. Eventually, Bucky comes over as well, aiding in hoisting the guy to his feet.

"What, are you drunk?" He asks, and suddenly Tony wants to crawl into himself.

When he doesn't think about it, though, he isn't _that_ bad, and besides, all he really has to do is waltz around ensuring that no kid takes a nose dive into the ice unsupervised. It's a simple task, which, might he add, comes along with a interval of at least fifteen minutes in the middle. He stumbles over to the concession tables while Bucky collects the cones, waiting patiently in line until it's his turn to step up to the window.

" _Barton_?"

"Stark?" He raises an eyebrow, "Can I get you something, or would you prefer to stare at me for the rest of the night?"

"Hot chocolate, and an aspirin--scratch that, just give me the bottle."

Clint smiles, moving to fill a styrofoam cup with the beverage of choice. "I forgot how funny you are. You know I can't keep medication back here--too many kids, you know, minors. But trust me, I'd love to be able to pop a pill or two every now and then. With all the screaming teenagers every weekend, it's a miracle I haven't gone mad." He hands the drink to Tony, "One dollar. Sorry about the pain killers."

"It's fine. I'll get Jarvis to find the nearest store, and Steve to drive me later." Could you even take aspirin in the afterlife?

Clint frowns, "Jarvis? I thought Bucky was still living with you guys. Did he move out?"

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He'd forgotten that detail. The universe he was in was far, far different from the world he had previously been experiencing. In this world, he managed to be drunk enough to _actually_ go after his big time crush, and even somehow land a solid relationship with the guy. There were no Avengers. There was no Stark Tower. There was no arc reactor. There was absolutely no details he was formally accustomed to.

He steps forward, only to stop short a second later. "Can I ask a favor?"

"Shoot."

It's an odd request, and Clint admits to that fact, because it's not every day that a friend comes up asking you to pinch them. Of course, Tony would never willingly let his teammate inflict any sort of agony on him, especially not if he thought there was the slightest chance of him actually feeling it.

And, after all, this was a dream (or rather, something _like_ a dream) so he shouldn't feel it.

But yet, he does.

He feels the small twinge of pain stemming from Clint twisting the skin on the backside of his hand, and he feels the air rush out of his lungs as the realization dawns on him. He feels the way that Steve coddles the hell out of him to calm him down. He feels the acceleration of the car as Bucky begins the drive home, and he feels the way the car skids along the icy asphalt. He feels the burn of the red and blue lights against the darkness, and the sting of the Iv that a paramedic sticks into his hand. He feels the dryness of his throat when he wakes up in a hospital bed, and he feels the way Steve's thumb runs over his knuckles in reassurance. There's an unsteady pace to his heart as he catches sight of his parents walking in the room, red-eyed and tear stained, and yeah, he feels that too.

It's a lot to handle, and quite frankly, he _can't_ handle it. His footsteps are cracking the tile underneath as he runs, pressing harder and faster and without the intention of stopping anytime soon.

Steve is calling for him from somewhere over his left shoulder, exclaiming counterfeit promises of the consoling ending in store. Deep down, he knows its a lie--nothing can possibly be right in this life. Something will always be wrong. Something will always be haunting him. His deceased family and friends are alive, which, and if it isn't enough on its own, is accompanied by the idea of his happiness. The situation is wrong, torn apart in so many ways that it's extremely difficult to pin point exactly the specific characteristic giving it away.

And so he runs, straight for the exit, straight for cover.

Along the way, though, he trips, spiraling downward into an abyss of nothing. He is unable to see anything, and nothing is enabled to see him. In the distance, Steve's voice breaks off, transforming into a sound that doesn't fit the familiar one Tony links him to.

"Mr. Stark," he pauses, and Tony's feet fall onto something hard. "My name is Sam Winchester. You're going to be okay. My brother Dean and I are going to get you out of here."


End file.
